The Last Day in Kvatch
by Skarlote Edjj
Summary: Pilot/Oneshot. "One is sheltered under the Great Wings of Akatosh, if he is deemed worthy. Brothers and sisters, are we sheltered under his Great Wings?"


Hello everyone. For the past couple months I've been stuck with an ambitious (for me) story idea that won't go away. I have never had a lot of luck actually finishing anything, so I want to try something here. This is a "pilot" oneshot of sorts. If it works well and I can refine my storytelling a bit, I'll try and proceed with a full multi-chapter story that has a bit higher quality than my other Oblivion crackfanfic. Please give your thoughts and especially critiques and advice if you have any.

Disclaimer: Render that onto Todd Howard the things that are Todd Howard's, and render unto Skarlote Edjj the things that are Skarlote Edjj's.

* * *

Old Carlo had a terrible habit of arriving last-minute each Loredas with his crates of wine for the ritual. Every week, a frantic Brother Martin rushed them into the cool chantry cellar with moments to spare before the clock struck noon. By the end of it, Brother Martin's nerves had half a mind to drink the whole stock himself.

Martin glanced at Carlo's hunched willowy figure stacking the empty crates. Seeing the old man's back turned, Martin snatched a bottle from the rack and slipped it into his robe's deep pocket. He then stepped in to help Carlo lift the last crate. Finally, catching a moment, the pair stooped by the wine racks, leaning on their knees to catch their breath.

"Perhaps a bit off the top for yer trouble, Brother Martin?" old Carlo panted, fished into his embroidered leather satchel, and produced a bottle of brandy with a wink. "I won't tell the high priest."

Martin's face heat up in embarrassment. "I-I'm afraid I don't have time. Here though," he lifted the stack of empty crates. "I have a moment to load you back up."

"Ah, thank ye, lad!" old Carlo flashed a toothless grin. Martin responded a meek smile. The pair stumbled up the stairs, Martin under the cumbersome stack of wood crates threatening to slip and smack him in the head, and old Carlo, who for the past two years had insisted he was still young enough to get about without a cane.

Martin was terribly thirsty. His wool gray robes were soaked in sweat, and he began to feel a bit dizzy, swaying under the crates as Carlo's shaking hand slowly opened the door into the chapel. The pocketed bottle of wine slammed hard against Martin's knee, and he bit back a hiss of pain.

The high priest darted around the chapel fast enough for his white beard to sway over his shoulder, shaking hands with the congregation and whispering to the lined up acolytes. He caught a glimpse of Martin and threw him an anxious frantic smile. Martin nodded, scraping his head a bit into one of the crates. _I'll be right back,_ Martin mouthed, and the high priest replied with an exasperated nod.

Martin and Carlo darted around the stragglers, and Runa's little boy was kind enough to hold open the front door. "Much obliged, son!" Carlo stooped and ruffled his sandy hair before stepping outside.

The late summer sun blinded Martin for a second. His head pounded and he couldn't quite remember where Carlo had parked his horse and wagon. He just followed Carlo's heavy breathing as his eyes adjusted to the light, and winced each time the bottle in his pocket bumped into his knee.

"There she is!" The sun gleamed on Carlo's head and he led Martin to the fence post where ol' Betty waited. "Poor ol' Betty!" Carlo stroked her white spotted nose. "Let's get ye some good oats and water, aye?" He planted a kiss on ol' Betty's nose. Martin meanwhile rounded back to the wagon, and heaved the stack of crates into it.

"My, the weather's turning a bit, innit?" the old man remarked. Indeed, the sky had darkened a bit, which was a boon to Martin's migraine.

"Aye," Martin responded absently. He turned his head back to the chantry. The clock would strike at any moment now. He jogged past the cart. "Until next time, Carlo."

"Oy," Carlo clapped a hand on Martin's shoulder, snapping Martin's attention back and stopping him in his tracks. "Yer a fine lad. What I'd give to shake yer pop's hand."

Martin tried to work his lips into a smile over his grit teeth. He swallowed quite a few words until he could manage a "Thank you." He glanced back to the chantry once again. "I'm afraid I'm needed in there."

"Oh aye, of course!" Carlo nodded. "Old Carlo comes in late and has yeh scramblin'!" He nudged ol' Betty by her harness and turned her toward the inn. "Bless ye, lad! Bless ye!"

The clock struck as Martin's feet hit the chantry's steps. He stumbled into the chapel and turned a few heads, most notably the high priest's. The high priest pressed his thin lips together and quickly nodded.

Martin scrambled down the aisle and behind the altar, pulling back the fine velvet curtains underneath and picking up the golden hourglass. Right as the last chime of the clock rang out, he turned the hourglass and placed it on the altar, just in front of the stone basin.

Relief and impatience washed over the High Priest's face as he watched the blue sand stream down the glass. Tardiness, after all, was not ideal for the god of Time.

"My brothers and sisters!" The high priest turned to address the congregation, and Martin stepped back to join the acolytes. "We thank you for joining us, to meditate, and to ponder the wonders of the Constant, the Great Dragon. One is sheltered under the Great Wings of Akatosh, if he is deemed worthy. Brothers and sisters, are we sheltered under his Great Wings? If not, I pray that you ask yourselves why."

Martin tried to listen but the thirst was absolutely overwhelming. The hour of chanting and singing pounded his ears and parched his throat. The thirst set his mind on fire and his clasped hands shook. At long last, a fermented smell made Martin's mouth water. A row of priestesses emerged from the stairs and reverently carried shallow golden bowls.

"We offer this sacrament of our bounty," the high priest gestured to the stone basin atop the round altar. One by one, each priestess approached and carefully emptied her bowl into the basin. The wine vanished before it even touched the stone.

By the time the ritual was complete, thunder vibrated the stained windows, shaking off droplets of rain. Martin was just about ready to fall over once the high priest concluded with a final chant and dismissed the attendees.

He stumbled through the leaving congregation. The thirst was unbearable now and his hands spasmed. He retreated down the stairs into the cellar, careful to check that no one had followed him.

Isolated and feeling a bit ashamed, Martin crouched behind the now emptied rack, pulled the bottle from his pocket, and uncorked it. The dry wine scorched his already parched throat and yet it felt so sweet but so bitter going down. His trembling hands stilled, and his migraine vanished. He set the bottle down on the floor, utterly drained, and leaned his head back against the wall to stare up at the rafters. The buzz soothed his mind with a protective fog where wayward thoughts could disappear.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur, much to Martin's liking. He polished the pews and swept the floor, granting a happy hello to clergy and an adventuring wood elf passing by. The rain poured madly and the thunder rattled the windows. All further errands would have to be postponed for another day, and the high priest dismissed Martin and the others to meditate. Nothing could sufficiently quiet Martin's mind for meditation, so he opted for the next chapter in his volume of _Feyfolken, _and a glass of wine before a mercifully dreamless sleep could take him. It would be the last for quite some time.

* * *

Thank you for taking the time to read, especially if you made it this far! Is this characterization of Martin a bit of a stretch, or do you feel like it's interesting? He's a very nice, noble and heroic character, but I would like to see his polish run a little thin in some places, especially when it comes to his old demons. Also, anyone have ideas on how to treat a bad case of beige prose? Some days I worry that I have a terminal case of it.


End file.
